


The Violin Concerto

by MissViolet



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissViolet/pseuds/MissViolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A violin concerto sparks passion between Holmes and Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Violin Concerto

I could hardly believe my eyes when I returned to Baker Street after my morning rounds. Holmes, normally abed deep into the morning, was sitting at the breakfast table in a freshly starched shirt, drinking coffee and picking at some scraps of toast and jam that had been his breakfast.

"Awake so early? It's only eleven, Holmes. What's the occasion?"

"It's Joseph Joachim's violin concerto!" he said, fixing his glittering eyes upon me. I saw his joy at the prospect of a performance by his favorite virtuoso. "If you're interested, ah.." he said shyly, and placed two tickets to the Winter Garden on the breakfast table.

"Why, Holmes, I'd be delighted. How thoughtful!" I said, happy at the prospect of an afternoon in his company. He dabbed his mouth daintily with a napkin and nodded at me, looking pleased. "You'd better dress, then," he said.

I took care with my appearance, calling Mrs. Hudson for hot water, shaving carefully for the second time that day, and wearing my second-best suit. I put my brother's pocket watch in my vest and wore the gold cufflinks presented to me by the Fusiliers. With a dash of lavender water and a shoe-shine and brushing from the street-boy, I cut quite the figure, if I do say so. But Holmes out-did me with his perfectly tailored, funeral-black frock coat and grey pin-striped trousers, with spotless white Egyptian cotton shirt, and maroon necktie brilliantly bolstered with his emerald stick-pin, a gift from the Queen. Instead of his Inverness, he wore a black wool great-coat that looked as if it had survived the war. He was a serious, imposing figure in his dark clothes and old-fashioned coat. But the sparkle in his eye was contagious; it was a great treat for him to hear the violin virtuoso.

We caught a hansom cab to the theatre. He sat close to me in the cab, gazing out the window, for reasons of his own, he wanted to observe the west side of the street, though he was sitting on the east side of the carriage, and so we sat pressed together. I was conscious of the scent of his shaving-soap, slightly reminiscent of violets or bluebells, and as he chatted lightly about the crimes that had been committed along the boulevard, he leaned closer to me to emphasize this or that point. I began to grow light-headed from the close contact. I thought he must be oblivious to my secret feeling, otherwise he would not take such liberties as resting his hand lightly on my trouser leg, so that a thrill ran through me. He trailed his fingers against my leg, perhaps accidentally, but I caught my breath, and he looked at me for one intense glittering moment, it was almost as if he were angry, his eyes burned against me for a few seconds, and I was startled by his gaze, my cheeks flushed, and then the cab stopped and he lightly stepped out and into the theater, and I followed.

The theatre was warm and dusty, a low, respectful thrum moved through the crowds as they found their seats. We had a small box to ourselves, the tickets a gift from a satisfied client. I looked through a pair of opera-glasses at the dress circle below. Women in their dramatic silks, jewels sparkling in their hair and at their throats, rows of graceful little buttons up their elbow-length gloves, and the gentlemen, in their dark cutaways and starched collars, the silk toppers and Sunday ties. The stage was dark, a mass of velvet curtains, as the patrons were ushered into their seats. I glanced over at Holmes. He was looking at the stage with keen excitement. There was a low hum running through the crowd; Joseph Joachim was thought by many to be the greatest violin virtuoso who ever graced the stage. Finally the audience was seated, the aristocrats and their women with their glittering décolleté in the dress circle, the merchants in the balcony and the workman and kitchen-maids standing in the back. At the very top of the balconies were the private boxes, six plush seats where the lower levels fit ten, the privacy of curtains, and a waiter to bring brandy and cigars during the intermission.

The lights were dimmed, and the curtains drew back. The audience leaned forward in anticipation. I looked at Holmes, who smiled at me with nervous excitement. From the first rich notes flowed from the virtuoso's bow, he was transported. His eyes shone with passion, and sometimes he was nearly breathless. It was a thrilling performance, and though I was unschooled in music, even I could see that Joachim was a master of the instrument.

During the intermission, we got up and stretched, but did not have to go down to the concessionaire, because a waiter came and took our orders. We ordered a couple of brandy-and-sodas and a box of Egyptian cigarettes. The waiter returned only a few moments later with a decanter of brandy, a siphon, and a bucket of ice. The cigarettes were on a small wooden tray with a box of matches in elegant black and gild.

"How luxurious," I said. "I'm accustomed to fighting the queue for bar service during the intermission."

"Yes, there are occasional rewards to my profession, in addition to the satisfaction of solving the puzzle and restoring justice, which is, of course, my chief reward." Holmes closed his eyes and exhaled a stream of perfumed tobacco smoke. He jingled the ice in his glass with obvious pleasure, savouring the fine brandy.

Perhaps he'd had a bit too much; during the second half of the performance, which was even more awe-inspiring than the first, Holmes periodically grabbed my hand during the most thrilling sequences, and sometimes he'd rest his hand lightly on my leg. Once, he'd left it there just a shade too long, and his eyes met mine with a hint of guilt. By the time the performance was over, Holmes' eyes were burning, his cheeks flushed pink. He took my arm as we walked to the row of hansom cabs, and clung to me tightly as I found us a ride.

We slid in together, and I was unsurprised that he sat right next to me. Things had been going in that direction since we first met, and now he was euphoric with the fine brandy and the majesty of the performance. The jostling cab threw him into my arms, and that is where he stayed for the duration of the ride. I tried to remain calm, but holding him was maddening. I willed him to do something, strike up a conversation to steer my mind away from the possibilities. We approached Baker Street, and suddenly I panicked. The moment would soon be over; I had to make it go forward. Before I could, Holmes leaned down and kissed me greedily, stealing my breath. It was a few seconds of passionate ecstasy before the cab pulled up to our Baker Street lodgings. I wasn't even sure if it had happened, so brief was the contact. He opened the door and jumped down, offering me a hand. I stepped down and we made our way up the steps.

Holmes shrugged out of his heavy overcoat and left his collar and tie on the mantle. He sat in the wicker armchair to pull off his polished boots. I stood and looked at him curiously as he worked at his boot. He looked up at me, struggling with it, and our eyes locked. I moved closer, took his boot in my hand, and gently pulled it off his foot, replacing it with one of the soft felt slippers he favored for indoor wear. I did the same to the other foot, unsure as to why I was taking over this curiously intimate task, but nonetheless taking great pleasure in it.

"You were moved by the performance," I said. "How rare to see your poet's soul shine through your rationalist's mind."

"Oh yes, there is more to life than deduction," said Holmes as he stood. "My heart is still beating quickly with the master's notes. Feel it," he said, taking my hand, and at his touch my own heart began to race. He pressed my hand to his chest, and I felt the thumping of his heart beneath the thin cloth. It seemed to beat faster even as I measured it, and I felt Holmes' chest rise and fall, and then he sighed softly, almost inaudibly. My cheeks flamed, and my groin suddenly ached. I jerked my hand away, but he caught it quick as a cat, and held me like a vise.

"My heart is beating like a sparrow's," he whispered to me. "Feel it." I looked at him desperately, hardly believing what he had just said. His eyes burned into mine, and I couldn't meet his gaze.

"Why not touch me, if you wish to?" and he asked me suggestively, lips slightly parted, seducing me with half-lidded eyes. I pressed my hand to his heart, and I felt how quick it was, and how his breath rose and fell with it. At my touch, he exhaled softly, for my ears alone, and I bit my lip to keep from ravishing him. He grabbed the back of my neck, pulling my hair, drawing me closer, and then our lips touched, and quite naturally he opened his mouth. I kissed him deeply. He twined his fingers through my hair as our kisses grew more desperate and abandoned. I bit his lips, and his cheeks flushed scarlet and his eyes shone.

"I want you," Holmes whispered. As if in a dream, I took him in my arms, and suddenly our bodies were pressed together, our pricks straining against too-tight trousers, tongues fiercely entwined. The rise and fall of his chest was exotic and maddening. I'd never undressed a man before, and now I slipped my hand eagerly underneath his satin lapels, his dark waistcoat, and impatiently tore at his shirt buttons, exposing a little of his lean chest. His bare skin beneath my fingertips was hot and silky. He moaned and pressed himself closer. My hand was fast on his buttons, and soon I had his clothes in utter disarray, feeling the smooth planes of his body with unfettered delight. His hand touched mine, and he unbuttoned the white cotton of his dress shirt, inviting me to gain entry, and I slipped my hand inside, caressing his hot skin, and then, almost without thinking, I brushed his nipple, and he moaned sweetly, trembling. I rubbed his nipple between my first and second finger, feeling it harden like a small pebble, and Holmes was panting and sighing underneath my touch. Suddenly driven with lust, I tore at his clothing madly, and then we were both crying out with heat and passion.

Never would I have guessed that his calm exterior cloaked a hot-blooded temperament. He grabbed my wrist tightly, almost hurting me, and kissed me passionately, drawing my hand to his waist, placing it there suggestively. My hand dropped down; he was stiff in his trousers. I caressed him through the fine wool and he moaned greedily. How desperate he was! It was enthralling, and I quickly unbuttoned his fly and took him in my hand. He was smooth and hot and very stiff, and his hips thrust uncontrollably to force his straining prick into my tight grasp.

"It is heavenly," he panted into my ear, resting his head on my shoulder. I had one hand encircling his stiff cock, and the other cupping his charming buttocks. Holmes drew his breath sharply. I began the slow, steady strokes, his hips bucked, and I pinched his bottom in my excitement, "Oh! John!" cried Holmes and the last was uttered with a groan. I bent to kiss him again, and Holmes kissed me back, a long, hot kiss, full of ardour. I squeezed his stiff manly tool, feeling with pleasure the dew that leaked from its tip, while Holmes groaned voluptuously. His damp locks fell bewitchingly over one half-closed eye, his fine cherry-dark lips were parted, and his cheeks beautifully flushed. His white dress shirt was in disarray, and his bare chest rose and fell as his breath quickened.

He was so lovely in his pleasure. I tightened my hand and stroked him so hard his bottom twitched. "You look so naughty," I murmured, terribly excited by his approaching climax, and by my shameless words. I squeezed his bollocks encouragingly and he gave a short hard groan. "John!" he cried, "You tease me so!" and then he was coming, gasping and crying his relief, while he soaked my hand with the fruit of our delightful labour.

"That was so lovely," I whispered to him, as I stroked his damp locks from his forehead. He moaned, a sweet, low sound of satisfaction.

"It was," he agreed. "And now I will return the favor."

"Ah, it's no matter.... that is to say..." I stammered. Suddenly I was embarrassed. I was stiff in my trousers, while Holmes was pleasantly satisfied, flushed and beautiful in his deshabille.

"You don't want it?" asked Holmes teasingly, and I gasped as his long fingers brushed the crotch of my trousers, feeling the hardness enclosed therein. Pleased with himself, his elegant fingers brushed again and again, until I was bucking into his maddeningly feather touch. Then he leaned in to kiss me, and I opened my mouth, kissed him passionately, and his hot, slick tongue was twined with mine.

"Let me see you," he breathed, tearing his mouth away from me. "Let me see you come in my hand, my mouth. Wouldn't you like that?" he asked, and I trembled in anticipation. He brushed away my top-coat, fumbled with the buttons of my waist coat, laying my pocket-watch carefully on the end-table. Then his clever fingers unfastened the buttons of my dress shirt and reached inside eagerly. His hands were cold and I gasped as he touched me. He shivered, too, as his hand found a rhythm. Up and down, leisurely, stroking me into a glorious cock-stand, until I was clinging to him desperately, thrusting my stiff-stander into his warm tight grasp.

Without a word of explanation, he bent low and sucked the tip of my cock into his soft mouth. I had never felt anything so divine. I nearly swooned as I tore at his hair and begged him to suck me. He did so obligingly, kneeling to make himself more comfortable, and his eager compliance drove me to a frenzy. I lasted a very few moments in his warm wet mouth. When he licked the sweet spot beneath my cock-head, I spent in a torrent of lust, groaning hard as I flooded his mouth. He held my hips steady as I came, trapping me, making it last longer, an agony of delight. When the storm passed, he rose to his feet, sought my lips, making me shiver one last time as we kissed deeply.

"We look a mess, don't we?" asked Holmes. Dress clothes, once mussed, always look a sight worse than day-wear. Holmes' white shirt was crushed and wrinkled, and my collar was askew. With nimble fingers, he quickly removed it, and my waistcoat, and every last stitch, waiting for me to step out of my trousers, and leaving everything in a neat pile over the wicker arm-chair. For the first time, I felt embarrassed, standing naked before him, in only my socks, while he stood and looked at me without a trace of self-consciousness. He lit a cigarette, inhaled with great enjoyment, and simply looked at me.

"I think it is only equitable that you disrobe as well, Holmes," I said awkwardly.

"Fair enough," he said, and slid out of his shirt and waist-coat all at once, adding them to the pile over the chair. And then his trousers, and even his socks, until he was standing before me, his body beautifully illuminated by the gas-light. He was lean and strong, tall but deceptively thin in stature. I felt a twinge of embarrassment for my own scarred body, no longer in the peak of youth, and worn hard by battle and tropical illness. But he drew close to me and trailed a delicate finger across my collarbone, making me shiver. He didn't say anything, but I noted the look in his eye as he touched me. It was voluptuous, almost greedy, and I saw how much he wanted me, and how he was anticipating a continuation of the afternoon's delightful activities.

"Let us stoke the fire and order a bath," he said, fingers still trailing across my body.

"What about Mrs. Hudson?" I asked.

"I'm sure she's seen worse than two bachelors enjoying an afternoon frolic. Sequester yourself in your bedroom while I order the bath, if you feel shy."

Holmes was nonchalant about a practice which I feared would have us evicted from our lodgings, but he knew the landlady better than I. I withdrew to my bedroom, sat naked on my bed while Holmes pulled the bell to summon Mrs. Hudson. I presume he cloaked himself in his mouse-grey dressing gown so as not to shock her.

Bathing at Baker Street was an arduous business, which is why Holmes often visited the Turkish baths. Getting the hot water up the stairs and into our lodgings was a bother. Mrs. Hudson sent the pageboy with bucket after bucket, and he filled our great old tin tub, which Holmes had placed by the fire. When it was half-full, Holmes added a dash of wintergreen oil and essence of slippery elm bark. Then he joined me in my bedroom as the pageboy continued his tedious chore. He sat down next to me on the bed, leaning in for a kiss.

I felt myself descending once again into the passion of our earlier encounter, as I opened my mouth to his tongue, panting as if I hadn't just spent explosively between his lips only moments earlier. Again I felt my heart racing, my pulse throbbing, and the heat washed over me. I groaned with sheer lust, and grabbed his shoulders hard as he kissed me.

"They'll overhear," I breathed, my panic at being discovered not quelling my passion in the slightest.

"You'll just have to be quiet, then," said Holmes. But he left me sitting on the bed to check the status of our bath. The page was done, and Holmes gave him a few shillings for his hard work. Then he summoned me from the bedroom, and when I walked out, he shed his robe, his body magnificently illuminated against the firelight.

"Come and join me," he said merrily, stepping into the bath. It was a double, so there was room for the two of us to face each other, but Holmes insisted we lay side-by-side in the steaming, fragrant water. I felt his hardness brush against my thigh as he shifted himself. He squeezed the sponge over my shoulders, washing me tenderly, pausing every now and then to lay a kiss on the sensitive points of my neck.

"I hope you have no plans for the evening," he murmured. "I rather think I'll stay in tonight."

"I'm not going anywhere," I gasped, as his hand found my stiffness. The hot water, and his firm grasp, were delightful. I shifted myself, sloshing water over the edge of the tub. Holmes began to stroke me, making me tremble in an effort not to splash too much water over the sides.

"Excellent! We'll have a fine meal, and retire early, perhaps," he said casually, as if he wasn't teasing and stroking my cock to aching hardness.

"Yesss..." I breathed, arching my back, trying to push myself deeper into his grasp, to make him stroke me faster.

"Oh, yes!" he said, laughing merrily. "The pleasures of home and hearth. There's nothing like it." I didn't reply, but my head rested on his shoulder, and he continued to murmur pleasantries, as my short gasping cries bespoke of my imminent release.

"I do love an evening before the fire," he continued, peeking slyly at me, enjoying the tease.

"_Ohhhh_," I groaned, my entire body trembling in ecstasy, the pleasure thrumming through my limbs, as his hand found a quick rhythm, driving me mad with delight. My excitement was reflected in Holmes' sparkling eyes. He bent to kiss me, and that pitched me over the edge, into an abyss of ecstasy, and with a violent splash, I spent for the second time, even longer and more agonizingly pleasurable than the first.

I was then so limp and relaxed that Holmes' arm was all that kept me from sinking into the water. We washed each other, and I took special care in stroking his throbbing prick, making sure it was thoroughly clean, until my ministrations produced the expected result, and Holmes, with a hard groan and a lewd word, spurted into my hand, hips twitching madly as he rode out his pleasure.

"Tired yet?" he teased me, when his body finally went limp.

"I think some refreshments will invigorate me. Why don't you ring Mrs. Hudson for dinner?"

"Capital idea, my dear fellow. Let us dress, but not too much, because I don't want the bother of removing it all again."

"In a moment," I said. The bath-water was still warm, no doubt enhanced by our heated bodies and white-hot spendings. I leaned into the crook of Holmes neck, and he put his arm around me. We savoured the moment, which neither of us wanted to end. Holmes made some small sound of pleasure and contentment, and I realized, to my surprise, that for the first time, he appeared to be happy, and it was all because of me, and us. I felt a pang of joy, and wanted to stay forever in his arms, in the soothing, fragrant warmth of our bath, but the prospect of dining together, perhaps enjoying an aperitif or two, and then, the whole evening laid before us, sparkling with promise... that was exciting, and reason enough to rise and dress again.


End file.
